Fashion

Want To Look “Perfect”? There’s An App For That

/ Courtney / 1 Comment

I recently discovered an app that is either the best thing ever invented or actually everything that is wrong with the world. It’s Perfect365, and IT BLEW MY MIND. I can never trust my eyes again.

By this point, we all know that the pictures in glossy magazines or on big name websites are all Photoshopped. Sometimes it’s done tastefully and they still look human, and sometimes it’s so gratuitous they end up missing a limb somewhere. But basically all mainstream images are retouched in some way, and in no way represent what “normal” looks like.

We all know this, but the internet still basically explodes anytime an untouched, potentially unflattering photo of a celebrity is leaked. We’re hungry for it. We want some proof that cellulite exists outside our own chubby asses and thighs, that wrinkles and bags under the eyes don’t discriminate. Because so much of what we see of celebrities and models is unattainable, and can have a very real impact on how people (and women in particular) feel about themselves.

I accept this, and I am constantly working to accept myself without comparison to these perfect images. As is. With my rogue chin hairs, under-eye circles, and pesky zits that didn’t get the memo that WE’RE IN OUR THIRTIES NOW, YOU CAN CHILL THE FUCK OUT.

I arm myself with the knowledge that I could look just like Scarlett Johansson or Kate Upton with the proper Photoshop expert (shut up, don’t take that away from me). I carry the knowledge that ScarJo and Kate don’t even look like the versions I see of them.

But I don’t think I had fully processed the idea that every person I follow on Instagram or see on Facebook has the tools to basically Fairy Godmother the shit out of themselves and transform into a perfectly complected, wrinkle-free, bright-eyed version of themselves. TRUST NO ONE.

Want proof? You got it.

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I posted this first picture on Facebook to show how crazy the difference was, and to make sure people were aware that this existed. I mean, I could just be living under a rock, I’m never totally sure.

In the caption I wrote that I like the original picture of myself and felt good about it, but after transforming into a wax figure version of myself, I actually kind of got sucked into liking the “perfect” version. And my friends and family (who are basically the best people in the world) jumped to reassure me I looked great in the original and that they actually preferred it.

Thanks guys. 🙂 Mission accomplished – I feel pretty and loved. But don’t worry – I wasn’t actually having a personal appearance crisis. Is that a thing? A beauty meltdown? Whatever. No, I like my face. My eyes look just like my grandmother’s. I have my mom’s smile. I have good hair. I have the best eyebrow waxer in the world. I look just fine.

I wasn’t posting the picture comparison to fish for compliments (I mean, I’ll take em, sure). No, I think this instant and easy access to “perfect” was just a little alarming to me and I needed to share.

On the one hand, I freaking love it. I can easily “fix” little issues that pop up on my face and enhance things in my pictures to make sure I look like the best version of myself. But on the other hand it’s a slippery slope, right? Where do you stop? Where do you draw the line? I’d essentially be buying into the idea that “perfect” is even possible, and at that point how can I be trusted to control myself (not my best strength to begin with)?

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I am all for looking your best, and doing whatever makes you feel good. Whether it’s a full face of makeup, a string bikini, bright blue hair, whatever. Rock what you got. But turning yourself into a wax version of yourself complete with “enhanced smile” and skin so smooth you can’t even see the outline of your nose (seriously, it’s kind of missing in this picture) is going down a rabbit hole I think I want to avoid.

It’s like plucking your own eyebrows for the first time when you’re 15. Just a little at first, no big deal. But then a little more… and then you need to even it out. And then you need to make the other side match because that one looks just perfect…. and then you realize you’ve plucked half your eyebrow off and you can’t just “undo” that. You would have been better off not doing anything at all.

I can’t promise I won’t ever use this devil-app, because let’s be real – it’s kind of amazing. And if I have a big event and a gnarly zit that’s ruining my whole look I’m probably going to smooth that out in pictures. Nothing wrong with a little retouching, and if this app makes that easier, sweet.

But once I start smoothing everything and softening all my lines, and even MAKING MY EYES BIGGER, it gets a little out of hand. So I think I need to lay off using this as a regular photo editing app. Because I won’t be able to stop… I’ll just keep plucking, keep searching for that “perfect” that doesn’t exist. And while wax-doll Courtney is OK, she’s a little creepy.

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Every Body Is Worth Shopping For

/ Courtney / 2 Comments

I keep buying THINGS. Mostly clothes and shoes. Oh, and makeup.  I think it might be developing into an actual problem. I told my boyfriend last night I was going to return yet another pair of boots that didn’t quite fit, and that I was really going to try to cut down on all my online shopping in order to start saving more. Because you know, taxes. And down payments. And other boring adult things.

And yet I JUST bought a bunch of clothes online. As in, 30 seconds after I hit “purchase” I started writing this. I mean really though, it was buy one get one half off so it almost would have been irresponsible NOT to buy them now, right?? This is the warped logic I can use to convince myself of just about anything. I work in sales and I like to think of myself as a fairly persuasive person. But when it comes to myself, that shit is dangerous.

I know I need to cut back a little, but clicking and spending and buying is so much FUN. It is, you can’t deny it.

But I’m running out of room for all the things. You see, when my boyfriend moved in he got zero hanging closet space – just a consignment nightstand with 2 drawers I shoved in the back corner. That’s it. I kept the rest of the space, and even then, my stuff was overflowing.

So for the sake of our relationship, I’ve been forced to purge my closet at least twice since he moved in. As in, 4 or 5 garbage bags worth of clothes to donate to Goodwill. Not counting shoes. Seriously, I had so many clothes I needed to get rid of.

But that’s the thing when you have fluctuated in size from a 12 to a 22 in the span of about 5 years. You hold on to all those size 12’s because, come on. They are so cute. And so small. And it wasn’t THAT long ago that you fit into them.

On top of which,  you spent good money on them, and someday they’re TOTALLY going to fit again and it would just be a waste of money to re-buy everything. They’re sexy. And inspirational… and such a tease… and actually kind of soul-crushing when you start to think about it too hard and hold them up and realize that isn’t you anymore.

So you purge. But purging your skinny clothes is hard. It feels like defeat in so many ways. It feels like admitting you’re in this fat body for the long haul, and don’t believe you’ll ever get back to that size. It makes you feel so crappy about yourself that you want to sit down and eat a whole bag of Goldfish. Or is that just me?

Anyway, I purged. I said goodbye, because you know what? It was time. And I needed the closet space. And not just so my boyfriend wouldn’t have to store his clothes in the trunk of his car. But because I finally decided in the last year or so to really start shopping for my current body, and to start dressing it in things I actually liked.

I’ve always been a person who loved fashion and took a lot of care in the way I dressed, whether it was silver platform sneakers and matching metallic jacket, or the perfect maxi dress and beaded necklace. But something happened when I got to a size I didn’t like. I stopped shopping. So I literally had nothing to wear, since nothing in my closet fit me anymore.

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I relegated myself to yoga pants and baggy tops pretty much every day. I didn’t go out and supplement my wardrobe, didn’t get different sizes in the styles I actually liked. I had this warped idea that I should not be spending money on THIS BODY. That THIS BODY wasn’t worth anything, financially or otherwise.

That somehow, I’d magically lose the weight and be back in a body that was worthy of love, and worthy of fashion. And in the meantime, I would dress my ugly, frumpy body in ugly, frumpy clothes. And stare at my size 12 jeans and halter tops while I wept into a bowl of ice cream. (The reduced fat kind, because you know, that’s healthier.)

I almost felt like if I punished myself hard enough for being in this fat body, I might somehow shame myself into changing it. Turns out, that’s not how it works. It just starts to feel hopeless. You start to value yourself less every day.

But at some point last year, something clicked. Some part of my brain recognized I am still beautiful, that this is not the final destination on my journey, and that I deserve to decorate, celebrate and otherwise embrace myself as I am right now. Size 2, size 12 or size 22.

Part of that probably has to do with the fact that I was in a great place in my life – good job, great friends and family, and the most supportive boyfriend on the planet. I have to give Gil a lot of credit for helping me learn to love and accept myself again because he’s played a big role in it. And honestly, he still loves my body more than I do, but I’m working on it.

So I shopped. I clicked. I bought. And I remembered how fun it could be. Especially since there are a lot more plus size options available today than there were a few years ago. I filled my closet with leopard-print tops, black leggings, wide calf boots, bold print maxis, V-neck tees, fitted blazers, and SO MANY STATEMENT NECKLACES.

It didn’t feel like defeat – it felt amazing.

And then a weird thing happened. Over time, I started to like how I looked a little more. I started to feel a little better. I started to want to celebrate my body in other ways, like trying yoga for the first time. I mean obviously I’ll have to go shopping for some yoga outfits first, but I’m on the right path.

Turns out my incessant shopping has actually been an important step in the right direction for me. At that’s exactly what I’ll remind Gil every time a new package shows up at our front door.

Activity Trackers And Me

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

OK, let me just start by saying I have a bit of a shopping addiction. I have in under control (mostly) but I’m kind of an impulse purchase type of girl. If it’s new and it’s trendy, I’m probably paying attention. You may have seen my post the other day about wearable vibrators … I’m not embarrassed to tell you I pre-ordered mine. I mean, how could I resist?

I’m lucky enough to have disposable income and no hefty financial responsibilities other than myself and my mortgage, so I play it a little fast and loose sometimes. Which is why when the Fitbit Flex was announced in 2012, I pre-ordered one of those bad boys too. I was trying to get healthier and did my research on the different wrist trackers out there – I really wanted one that was compatible with MyFitnessPal and I liked the idea of a bracelet. And even though I think some of the other options were more stylish, I went with the Flex because it met all of my needs.

Only problem was that by the time it arrived, I had shattered my ankle and had major surgery. I was on crutches for three months and in physical therapy for months after that. I wasn’t so much concerned with tracking my steps as I was being able to make them at all.

Fast forward a few months and I finally got excited about my activity tracker again. And by then, the Flex was popular enough that a lot of my friends had gotten one as well. It was a great way to track which days we were really moving enough and personally, I found the sleep tracker really eye opening as well.

They’re not for everyone, I get it. And just because I own one doesn’t mean I’m getting my 10,000 steps a day like I know I should. But it does help keep me accountable. And small changes and improvements are better than no changes at all. As I type this, mine is laying dead and sad in the bathroom – I have been slacking lately and need to throw it back in the charger. Baby steps.

Anyway, I really like it except for the fact that it’s not the fashion statement I would typically choose to make. I ordered the bright pink replacement band, and that helps some. But I’m not ready to shell out the hundreds of dollars for the designer Fitbit bracelets that are just hitting the market and I just wish it looked better sometimes.

And then I saw this pop up in my news feed on Facebook today: Cuff Activity Tracker

I was weak guys. I clicked. And it was kind of awesome. Admittedly, the basic cuff band looks similar to my Flex, but what I’m really excited about are the other bracelet options. Which actually look like – wait for it – BRACELETS. Not just a rubber wrist band, but stylish arm candy.

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photo via The Verge

Now that’s not really enough to sucker me into trying this out and comparing it my Flex. I don’t need two trackers. BUT, the element that really caught my attention is the emergency alert feature. Basically, you press a button on the bracelet, and it sends out an SOS.

From the Cuff site:

The Cuff app will alert the people you designate as your “first responders” when you need help. You can program one person or your entire Facebook network as your “first responders.” Cuff will send your SOS to the people you choose, and it will not stop until someone responds. Your designated people will receive your location, live audio, and other relevant information to get you (or your loved one) the help you need.

This appeals to me as a woman. Which I know is exactly what they were going for – just call me the ultimate consumer. I have probably watched one too many episodes of Criminal Minds, but I do think about what I would do in the whole “trapped in the trunk of a car without my phone” scenario. You know, after I peed myself.

For single women out at the bars or walking to their cars alone at night, it’s not a bad idea, even if it was designed as a marketing hook. As someone who carries a taser because I’ve been followed/threatened once or twice, I’m probably a little more aware of these things. But I have to say, it has me considering a test run. If it can hold up to the functionality of my Fitbit while offering more stylish options and a “get out of trunk free” card, I might be switching teams.

I Look Like A Clown Hooker

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

“Hold on, your eyebrow smeared and it’s on your cheek.”

Um, WHAT??? I never thought I would hear someone utter those words to me, but it happened and now I need to talk about it. Allow me to elaborate.

You see, I decided a few weeks ago I needed to branch out and really try some new things so I could turn one of my hobbies into something I could actually do some freelance work with. My own business – nothing fancy, just something on the side that I was in control of, and that could be a creative outlet for me. The idea of a tax break wasn’t unappealing either.

So I started doing my research and found a program to learn how to be a makeup artist. PERFECT. I love makeup. I’ve always done it for my friends and this would be a fun excuse to actually learn what the hell I was doing. And in my mind, this would be a perfect freelance gig I could try out with no pressure since I’m not quitting my day job.

I found a one-day workshop that got great reviews online, and they offered a “basic certification” after completion, as well as the ability to apply for a pro card – meaning I get discounts on makeup. SCORE. Sign me up.

Sunday was the day. A friend I’d met at work a few years ago got wind of this little adventure and decided to join me. Bright and early, we made our way to the class. Dress code: all black. Excitement level: high.

It started out fine, if a little unorganized. They held the workshop in a hair salon on the days it was closed, and 20 or so wannabe makeup artists, including myself, piled inside. Most of the girls were professional cosmetologists looking to expand their skill set to include makeup, but a handful of us were just doing it “for fun”.

As I watched the owner and professional makeup artist go through her demo, I started to develop some concerns. Because about halfway through the demo, she got to eyebrows. I agreed with her statement about how important eyebrows are, and how they frame the face. She even made a comment about wanting to avoid “chola eyebrows” that look like they were just drawn onto the face. Forgetting for a second that she may have offended a number of people in class, I happen to personally prefer a more natural looking brow as well (I over-plucked in high school and I’m still recovering).

She goes on to explain that they have REVOLUTIONIZED a new technique, and it’s one we are all going to master in this class. Apparently, eyebrows that angle down at the ends at all (so, basically almost everyone) make people look “sad” and is apparently an epidemic we need to address. So as we broke off into pairs to practice different techniques, I kid you not, these were the instructions:

Ignore the natural brow where it angles down. It’s only distracting you from where the true brow should be. Pretend your client has no eyebrows and you are going to create the perfect eyebrow. Longer, and higher than where the hair is.

Hmmm. Weird. I bet you’re thinking what I’m thinking… wouldn’t you have 2 eyebrows on each side then? Basically an eyebrow that forks in the road and goes both ways? YES. YOU DO. YOU HAVE TWO FUCKING EYEBROWS ON EACH SIDE. And guess what??? That look we were trying to avoid? The one where it looks like a 5 year old drew on your eyebrow with a sharpie? THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENS. When you decide to create a whole new eyebrow where there is no hair, what do you expect?

I was working with an adorable little blond massage therapist with perfect skin – one of the other people in the class just taking it for fun. As the instructor comes over to paint on her dark brows, she looks at me in horror. I point out that the color is too dark and that you can still clearly see her actual eyebrow hair under the heavy line, and the instructor promptly informs me we can “hide” that, and a lot of people just shave off the ends of their brows so you can do this shape properly. Oh, of course. YOU SHAVE IT OFF. I see. Now the massage therapist looks really nervous.

“Can we trim your eyebrow, just a little?” the instructor asks her. She agrees. I decide she’s insane. I wouldn’t let that woman near me with scissors. She “trims” them all right… basically down the skin. After she walks away, my partner looks at me in dismay, groaning about how the instructor just “stole” her whole eyebrow, and how ridiculous she looks. The instructor circles back, one of her minions in tow to show off her beautiful work. I can’t help myself at this point. “She hates it. She wouldn’t go in public like that. That may work for an editorial shoot with models, but it’s not an everyday look. No normal person wants to wear a look like that for everyday life.” The death stare of an angry makeup artist (who does in fact, shave her eyebrows so she can “create any shape she wants”) sears into my very soul. “Well, I WOULD wear that look every day,” she snaps at me, and stomps away on her 5 inch heels. Huh, guess I won’t be winning any teacher’s pet points.

Now, I don’t know if it was punishment for mouthing off, but when the other instructor came back to “help” do my eyebrows, it was a sight to behold. Same double rainbow effect, but this time, THEY ADDED GLUE. “Oh, we just layer on glue and then paint over it with concealer to hide the hairs,” she tells me. I’m laughing so hard inside at this point, I figure why not? It was basically the same glue that was in our 3rd grade glue sticks, all over my face. As she finishes her masterpiece, her hand grazes my “new” eyebrow and it winds up on my cheek.

OK, timeout. If my eyebrow can smear onto my fucking cheek, that is not a good look. I grabbed the handheld mirror at my station to take a peek. Bad idea. I looked like a clown hooker after a rough night. Not OK. And as she finishes wiping my eyebrow OFF MY CHEEK, my workshop partner is standing behind her, eyes wide, mouthing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over. I think she might need therapy now.

As they finished taking our individual “after” pictures and started getting ready for a group shot, my friend who had tagged along and I looked at each other and just decided to get the hell out of there. It look me a minute to register what she was thinking though… at that point, everyone in class looked permanently surprised. We made our way to the door, but not before I got cornered by one of the instructors. “Don’t you just love how you look?” she asks me. I know I should have lied and been polite – it would be easier. But I just couldn’t. “Well, no. I mean, the work my partner did is great and I like the eye shadow, but I would never draw on eyebrows like this. I just wouldn’t wear them like this in public.” Awkward silence. I turned and walked away and we made our way out of the salon and back to my car.

I looked in my rear-view mirror as soon as we got in the car and just lost it. I needed to get that shit off my face, ASAP. As I reached for my bag I realized I left my makeup remover wipes in class. SHIT. I can’t go home like this and I’m sure as hell not walking back into that salon. I found an old paper towel, probably from that day last week I ate a bagel in the car on the way to work, and wiped off as much as I could.

If you don’t believe me, I have photographic evidence:

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Now, who wants me to do their eyebrows??